Alone Protects
by Mariam Shabti
Summary: Nerys the journalist - a self-diagnosed introvert and social outcast - comes across the Blog of Dr. John H. Watson during a bad bout of writer's block.
1. Chapter 1: Nerys

**A/N: Hello my lovelies! This is the first OC I've ever actually WANTED to do, so I hope you like her. I don't know yet if I want her to be romantically involved with anyone in our Sherlock universe, but she'll definitely meet plenty of the characters and give us her own personal take on each one. I actually am looking forward very much to seeing Sherlock and Anderson through her eyes... **

Nerys lived alone.

She liked it that way. She didn't like people. She didn't like interacting or being thrust into social situations that demanded she smile and talk and generally just...not be herself.

Many people thought her odd. Many thought she was growing to be a wretched spinster, though she was only twenty-eight. Sure, she hadn't had a boyfriend since she'd graduated from uni, but that didn't make her some mad hermit, did it? No, absolutely not.

And, contrary to popular opinion, she didn't own multitudes of cats.

No, she hadn't taken some vow of perpetual solitude.

No, she didn't mope about and eat chocolates late at night while watching crap telly.

No, she didn't read raunchy romance novels during her monthly.

And no, she _didn't_ need a significant other, _thank_ you very much.

She'd graduated from school with a degree in journalism, which, ironically, meant she hardly ever had to leave her flat. She designed websites, wrote articles, and advertised for the various journals she worked for, which all communicated with her through email. Some called her job "Social Media Journalism" but she refused to put up with such nonsense. It seemed to cheapen what she did; attaching "Social Media" to her degree made her feel as if she should be some airbrushed reporter, with her hair made up all fluffy and big and her makeup just so. Her job was harder than most people gave her credit for – she had to be her own motivator, since she had no boss in the flesh breathing down her neck until the article, hot off the typewriter, was finally in his fat, sweaty hands. She had to stay up to ungodly hours of the night, finishing a draft that was due a week before, propping her eyelids open with matchsticks and licking saltwater taffy to stay awake.

So what if it meant she could do all her work in pyjamas if she wanted to?

So what if it meant she could go for weeks at a time without seeing another living soul?

Sure, she had to get dressed for going to the supermarket. She had to smile and go through annoying social graces with the cashier. She had to not look like she wanted to melt into the floor when she ran into people she knew in the store aisles. But then she could go home again, strip down to her underwear and put away her groceries in silence.

Did she get lonely? Sometimes. But a semi-monthly trip to the pub with her girlfriends soon fixed that. Or the occasional phone-call to her brother in Leeds, just so she could hear another human being's voice.

But she was content being alone, for the most part. Alone didn't scare her, like it did so many people.

Alone protected her.

**A/N: Yes, yes, I know - she didn't meet anybody yet. But I wanted to start with a basic sketch and go from there. Til next time! *blows kisses* And please review! I take requests, especially for characters you want her to meet.**


	2. Chapter 2: The Blog

**A/N: Hello everybody! This chapter is short, but some pretty important things happen and I thought I'd put it up while I wrestle with chapter three. *rubs hands in glee* I hope you like it!**

It was late on a Thursday night when Nerys came across The Blog.

She was suffering from a very nasty combination of writer's block and the flu, and had moved on from wrestling with her article on Twelve Essential Tricks to Get Smoother Skin – as if she _cared,_ or had any personal experience or wisdom to contribute – and had happened upon It.

Eyeing it suspiciously at first, she sat back with a hot thermos of tea and a buttered muffin she couldn't taste and read the entirety of the Case of the Speckled Blonde.

The sun was peeping in her curtained windows when she'd finally finished the entire archive of Doctor John Watson's blog. Her back was cramped in a slightly slumped position and her eyes felt fried by the laptop's screen, but her mind was whizzing. This was writing at its best. The stories themselves were brilliant, obviously, but the man had a gorgeous command of the English language that she envied desperately.

She thought of her own blog, dusty and unused in the furthest crevices of the cyberverse, and winced at the memory of some of her writings. She dredged it up again and read through some of the latest stuff – all about three months old now – and cringed inwardly at the dull sentences and the passivity of the writing style. She remembered crafting that sentence. She had thought it smart and witty and had hit the post button with bubbly confidence. Reading it now, she wanted to delete the whole thing.

Oh, Dr. John Watson. _Teach me._ _Teach me what all those fool professors at uni couldn't. Teach me to put life back in my words._

Feeling drunk on lack of sleep and desperation, she quickly typed up the equivalent of an essay in the comment box on the Blog of Dr. John H. Watson and hit "Enter" before she could change her mind.

**A/N: Thankee muchly for reading! Review, sil vou plait? And remember, I take requests for characters she meets or relationships she may form. Just leave your request in a review or PM.**


	3. Chapter 3: Reading

**A/N: Firstly, many thanks to Tiffany Rayn and your splendiferous review! *curtsy* I had fun with this one. I hope you like the way I've portrayed Sherlock and John - they act an awful lot like my two younger brothers sometimes...**

John blinked the sleep from his eyes and took a sip of tea before he flipped his laptop open. He grunted quietly as he plopped into his chair and settled the computer comfortably in his lap, licking the liquid residue from his lips as he opened his browser and scrolled through his bookmarks.

Sherlock was curled on the sofa, the ridge of his spine forming a row of muted bumps through the silk of his dressing gown. John didn't know if he was asleep or simply thinking.

Seeing as how they weren't on a case, Sherlock couldn't possibly just be sitting still and thinking. For that he'd need something to think _about_, and apparently such things were only available during a particularly delicious murder or kidnapping or serial homicide.

_Sherlock, I swear you could figure out the cure for cancer if you would just put your _massive intellect_ to the issue. But no. Leave that for the_ lesser_ men, like me._

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled. His voice sounded muffled.

"I'm not making any noise!"

Sherlock untucked one hand from his current fetal position and waved it dismissively. "You were...thinking. Stop it."

John put down his teacup with one firm, pronounced movement. "Are you even awake yet?"

Sherlock tucked his arm back in and wriggled slightly as if he were cold.

John raised his teacup once again to his mouth and continued to scroll. He clicked on his own blog and looked back up at the detective on the sofa as the page loaded. "You know," he said with a tiny smirk, "I do believe you are asleep. Or did my _thinking_ wake you up?"

Sherlock moaned and drove his head further into the gap between the back of the couch and the seat cushion.

John grinned knowingly and looked back at his laptop. Eyes narrowing in concentration, he clicked on the notification and a huge paragraph popped up. Scanning it quickly, John took in a quick breath.

"Sherlock."

A muffled hiss rose from the sofa.

"Sherlock. This is a big deal."

The Union Jack pillow narrowly missed clocking John in the face.

The army doctor didn't seem fazed at all. He read the veritable essay again and gripped the sides of his computer. "Sherlock, you have to see this! This is...different."

John saw Sherlock's head pop out of the couch, and with a self-sacrificing sigh the detective unfolded himself from his previous recumbent position. John found Sherlock's head right beside his own as the taller man read over his shoulder, emitting an odd grunt after he'd scanned the first sentence.

Sherlock read the comment twice, then leaned back and knelt on the floor beside John's chair. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "That _is_ different. I'm glad you know better than to call me to the waking world without an acceptable mental exercise to be an alternative to sleep."

Without warning, Sherlock slapped his hands on the coffee table with a resounding thud and leapt to his feet. John jumped involuntarily, spilling tea on his shirt.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock shouted, "Simply brilliant! Invite her, now. There's her number, call it, see, she's left it in her comment. Do it, John." Sherlock gestured at the laptop, his icy eyes flashing with excitement. "Do it now."

With only a grumbled sound of dissent, John dug out his mobile and quickly dialed the number. "It _is_ six in the morning, Sherlock – "

The detective cut him off with a warning glare. "Irrelevant."

John rolled his eyes, but then assumed a cheery expression when he heard the other end being picked up. "Hello, Nerys Llewellyn? Yes, I saw your comment on my blog..."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review, and don't forget that I take requests. *wink wink* Til next time!**


	4. Chapter 4: Communication

**A/N: I am having so much fun with this one! It definitely helps that I have tons of time on my hands, and a ton of epiphanies and inspiration strikes. So, why not keep going while this streak lasts? And, as always, thank you Tiffany Rayn for reviewing.**

As John talked with Nerys on the phone, he began to fidget absentmindedly. Sherlock watched him like a hawk, waiting for the opportune moment to snatch his laptop away.

First, John crossed his legs under his computer.

Then his fingers started to drum on the armrest.

And then he scratched the back of his neck and began to tug on his own ear.

_He's being complimented. He always does that when somebody says something complimentary, the idiot. Why does it matter what people think, John? You shouldn't care._

Finally, John's fidgeting couldn't be contained within the confines of his chair any longer, so he rose, slid the computer into the recently vacated seat, and moseyed into the kitchen.

"Mhmm?" he was saying. "Oh, yes, well – " and silence.

A lot more of this sort of thing continued, but Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He'd grabbed the warm computer and cradled it in his arms as though it were a living thing. He perched on John's armrest and dissected Nerys' comment piece by piece.

**Dr. Watson,**

**It's early, and I've been up all night reading this blasted thing you call a blog. It's brilliant, you demented thing, and I can't stand it. As a writer who specialises in online journalism, I feel threatened that you should enter my little bubble of business and show me up. Next to you, an army doctor who probably only took two classes of English in uni, I look ridiculous. **

**I make a living by this writing thing. I struggle for every word that once came so easily, so to read this and realise how hard it's become for me is painful. You don't seem to try – you write fluidly and well and you love what you're writing about, so I suppose that's what makes it better. Dammit, I don't care about this skincare article I'm being forced to write, and so that's why it's rubbish. See? I've already learnt a thing from you, Dr. Watson.**

**I'm determined to learn more. I want to make my writing breathe like yours does. And I want to talk to you over the phone about it. No writing for me, since I can't seem to do it anymore without sounding like a complete arse. Anyway, I've got to get over this stupid hermit-ness of mine sometime. So call me. I shan't flirt with you, so no worries about that bit. And if you were thinking that, I'll cyber-slap you across your whole face.**

** Kind regards,**

** Nerys Llewellyn**

After her name she'd typed her number. Almost without thinking about it, Sherlock pulled out his own mobile from his trouser pocket and entered her contact under **Strange Arse Woman**.

He slid John's laptop back into place as the doctor himself reentered the room. John was grinning broadly and beating his hands softly on his thighs. He rocked back on his heels and said, "Well, she'll be coming this afternoon. You'd better clean up that, erm, _experiment_ on the kitchen table before she gets here."

Sherlock looked up at him with a sly half-smile. "The lymph nodes stay where they are, John. I'll be needing them."

**A/N: Again, please review! And blah blah I take requests, blah blah.**


	5. Chapter 5: Pyjamas

**A/N: Thank you to all that reviewed! Your words of encouragement are pure gold. Ambrosia. Glorious stuff that makes me jump around with glee. Honestly, not kidding. And I apologise for not posting yesterday - my internet is broken, dead, gone, irretrievable and I'm now using a very generous friend's.**

**Anyway, enough about me. Here's your chapter, and I shall post another promptly.**

Nerys debated whether she should put on proper clothing or not.

She was still suffering from the aftereffects of the flu, but she didn't think she was still contagious. Even so, the very thought of getting out of her nice, warm, fluffy pyjamas was extremely repellent and she didn't think she had the heart to do it.

She looked them over with a critical eye. They were just plaid pyjama bottoms and an old, grey uni t-shirt – surely not _too_ unacceptable. She'd seen worse on the teenagers in the supermarket. And it wasn't like she'd dribbled bogeys all down her front, either.

She stood and put down her thermos of now-cold tea. After reading the first entry in Dr. John Watson's blog she'd forgotten about it and let it go to waste. A pity. Now it was stale and tasted of plastic from sitting in the cup for too long.

She looked at the clock and stretched – it was nearly noon. She must have dozed off in her chair after the phone call at six that morning.

She'd been surprised when her mobile rang hardly ten minutes after she'd posted her comment. She'd answered immediately, and at the sound of that initial, hearty, "Hello" she'd felt completely at ease. This was a man she could talk to.

And talk she did.

She could hardly remember the last time she'd spoken so much to another human being outside the written word. She'd slightly embarrassed herself, going on and on about the different points of his various stories and the particularly good sentence structure concerning Sherlock's deerstalker incident. She'd praised and then tried to dissect his writing style from the "mmm"s and "uh-huh"s he'd provided her with during the length of the mostly one-sided conversation, and then realised that she'd made an arse of herself _again_.

"You know," she'd said, slightly out of breath from her monologue, "How about I just come over and we can discuss it in person? Face to face, like real journalism should be? We could call it an interview if you like."

Slightly shocked at her own audacity, but not enough to apologise and take it back, she'd waited eagerly for his response.

It came quickly enough – evidently he was used to dealing with weirder sorts than she – and she had noted a faint bluster in his voice as he said, "Certainly! Erm...when would be a good time? Today? Afternoon, maybe for tea?"

He was blushing. She heard it.

She'd forgotten that she had a rather attractive voice. Many people had commented on it once seeing her in the flesh. "Oh, hon, I thought you looked so different, based off your voice!" "That's so funny, I imagined you not so short." "Odd, I could've sworn..."

Alright, they didn't say it like that, but she could feel them thinking it as their eyes roved over her for the first time. It always made her feel picked to pieces and dissected and then clumsily slapped back together.

And so now Dr. John H. Watson would be disappointed upon meeting her, but that wasn't anything to worry about. This was a business endeavor. This was to better her career and learn from one of the best.

She smoothed some wrinkles out of her shirt, noting that this was the unstained one. Just as well. She was lazy, but not a slob. There was a difference. And since the purpose of this excursion was to learn, not to impress, why _shouldn't_ she go in her pyjamas?

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Again, review and all that rot. And requests. I take requests. *exaggerated wink* **


	6. Chapter 6: Meeting

**A/N: Here you go! Another one for you guys. It's longer than the others, but it was crafted with love. Enjoy!**

He was lying on the sofa, hands together in pseudo prayer. His eyes examined the spot on the ceiling that John said looked like a janitor mopping the floor with an upside down troll. He eyed it and secretly disagreed – it was obviously an eagle carrying off an open refrigerator, but that didn't matter at the moment. What did it matter what it looked like if he was going to use it for shooting practice?

"John!" he bellowed, mind made up.

His friend was sitting just across from him in his armchair, reading the newspaper. He didn't even jump at Sherlock's outburst. "No," was all he said.

"But _why?"_

"Because you'll shower plaster on your face."

Sherlock's brows pulled together in consternation. John was right. It simply wouldn't do to risk damaging his exceptional eyesight. He considered moving so that the plaster would have no chance of falling on him, but what was the fun in that? He didn't want to try shooting it at a diagonal. That would ruin the point of the experiment.

He discarded these thoughts as he heard the tottering steps of Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

"Oh, dears, I answered the door for you," she said once John had opened the door. Her pleasant face wrinkled slightly in disapproval. "I really had thought you'd replaced the doorbell. Your guest says that it was broken."

"Well, I _had_ replaced it, Mrs. Hudson," John blustered. "He can't have shot it again. He wouldn't dare – "

"Shut up, John."

The army doctor whipped around, and by the look on his face was about to give Sherlock a verbal lashing, but was cut off by the arrival of the guest behind him.

"It doesn't matter," a new voice said. Sherlock had never heard it before, and it was quite pleasant, mellow and low. "I'm here, so we can get down to it! Thanks for bringing me up, Mrs. Hiddles – "

"Hudson," Sherlock growled.

"_Hudson,"_ the guest amended.

Sherlock strained his eyes to get a look at the new arrival. He was loathe to move, but his own chest blocked his view. He hefted his thin frame to the side and rolled bodily off the couch with a thud.

Nerys jumped at the sound. She watched with no small amusement as the man in the blue dressing gown rose to his feet. She looked him over with a critical eye – far too thin, very tall, and (to her satisfaction) was dressed, like herself, in a grey t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms. His face looked as though it had been carved sloppily from a piece of pitted alabaster, and his eyes peered from it like two chips of ice. His hair was dark and curly.

She had a sudden mental image of him waking up in the morning and taking great foam curlers from his hair. She stifled the urge to giggle.

His eyes roved over her in turn. She could almost hear the cogs whirring in his head as he looked at her feet – _dirty, worn out dollar-store wellies –_ her pjs – _hand-me-downs from her brother, disguised as a birthday present – _her pilly beige jumper – _thrown on in haste, obviously came directly after awaking – _her hair, drawn back in a clumsy bun, and her face –

His eyes narrowed to slits as he looked at her face.

"Your teeth are crooked."

His voice reminded her of a leopard locked in a cello.

"So are your cheekbones," she retorted.

He put one hand to his face. His brow furrowed. "No they're not!"

"Yes they are. Look." She stepped closer and flicked one of them. "Lopsided."

His hand lowered slowly and he looked as if he dearly wished to chew her out, but before he could Mrs. Hudson announced cheerily, "Biscuits! Here you go!"

She'd gone and come back with tea-trappings without Nerys even noticing. From the look on Sherlock's face, he hadn't noticed either. Funny. For a man whose business it was to notice everything, this was a strange slip of habit. She filed it away in her head for examination later.

Suddenly feeling guilty for forgetting the real reason she'd come, she turned her attention back to a rather petulant Dr. Watson. As she gave him her most winning smile, he ceased glaring at the man behind her and responded in kind.

"So," he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them with an exuberance that was clearly forced, "shall we get down to it?"

"Yes, please," Nerys and Sherlock said in unison.

Nerys resisted the urge to glare at the detective. Apparently, Sherlock had no qualms over expressing his displeasure, for she could feel his gaze boring into the side of her head.

Mrs. Hudson had placed the tray on the coffee table, and was now eyeing the door longingly. "Well, then, I'll let you get down to it!" And she turned and headed down the stairs.

John looked pointedly at Sherlock. "Aren't..._you_ going to go, too? This is a sort of private interview, and – "

"Oh, nonsense!" Sherlock sneered, unfolding himself on the sofa once more. "Whatever she has to say can be said in front of me, certainly. And if not, I suggest the two of you go and, as they say, 'get a room.'"

Nerys folded her arms tightly across her chest and swallowed the rising laughter. John just looked mortified, if the red slowly rising from under his collar was anything to judge off of. "Honestly, Sherlock!"

The detective motioned lazily with one hand and let his eyes slide shut. "Oh, John, you're so easily irked. Just...do your normal little person thing."

John motioned for her to sit across from him, his face set in a very militaristic expression, and she made to do so. She didn't see one of Sherlock's eyes pop open and watch her.

She did, however, feel the immediate seeping of something cold and wet through her pyjama bottoms. Jumping to her feet with a yelp, she whipped around to see what appeared to be a _liver_ in her seat.

That was the first time she heard Sherlock Holmes laugh.

**A/N: Please review, luvs! And I'd appreciate suggestions for any pranks you'd like to see Sherlock play on Nerys...or perhaps Nerys play on Sherlock...**


	7. Chapter 7: Liver

**A/N: Here you go! More liver pranks for you all. Enjoy.**

Nerys stood and stared at the consulting detective on the sofa, her mouth agape. A liver. A liver on her chair. Or rather Sherlock's chair, it appeared, but that didn't matter. He'd put it there with the express intent of..._pranking_ her. As if he were some immature schoolboy!

John's head was in his hands, but she wasn't paying any attention to him. She waited, mute, until Sherlock's rolling, low laughter subsided and he fixed her with a sidelong glance.

"Finished?" she asked, voice pleasant.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Obviously."

"Good." She made a split decision, and moved quickly.

Sherlock's eyes widened, but were soon obscured from her view by the liver. She savored that look on his face, but even more than that she relished the delicious smack the wet, slimy organ made as it landed.

With a splutter, he swiped at the liver and knocked it off onto the carpet. His long-fingered hands wiped desperately at his face, low growls and whines ripping from his throat. John had peeked through his fingers at the sound of meat slapping skin and was now shaking silently with laughter, his face turning an alarming shade of puce.

Nerys wiped her wet hand on her already ruined pyjama bottoms and sneered in response to Sherlock's reproachful glare. "Oh, don't look at me like that, you clod," she laughed. "You know you deserved it."

"It was an experiment!"

"Of what, exactly? What could this possibly prove?"

He rose to his feet startlingly fast and loomed over her in what he thought must be an intimidating manner. Unfortunately, the remnants of blood and liver gunk on his face had a more comical than daunting effect.

Sherlock looked into this woman's eyes, those blue eyes of hers that seemed as cold and icy as his own. He saw mirth in them, and resented it. His gaze traced her porcelain-doll-like features, from her rounded pink-and-white cheeks to her little red mouth. He wished she would grin again so he could make fun of her teeth.

He saw her, and when Sherlock Holmes sees he sees very well. He saw someone who was bored, hungry, and looking for something to do, something to occupy her mind.

"It proved what I wanted it to," he said quietly.

Her eyes narrowed. A wisp of yellow hair fell from her bun onto her forehead, but she ignored it. "Are you going to tell me what it is, or am I expected to just complacently sit here with liver-pus on my pyjamas while you act all mysterious?"

John wheezed behind her with laughter, but silenced himself with his own hand when Sherlock sent him a freezing glance.

"Well," Sherlock growled, turning back to Nerys' accusing gaze, "obviously, you cannot deduce my methods for yourself, so that makes you an idiot. But don't worry – most people are. You see, I read your comment on John's blog."

Nerys's left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly, but Sherlock noted it and filed it away for later examination.

"What did you think of it?" Nerys said carefully.

Sherlock only grinned snidely at her and unfolded himself on the sofa again.

She groaned. "Look at you! A prima donna would be jealous, what with your superior conceit and total disregard for the opinions of others! You leave me this _lovely_ present for no reason? You really expect me to believe that? Or do you think it's acceptable for you to go around acting as if you're in some spectacular drama that is centered around you and your _massive_ _intellect?_"

"Hey, that's _my_ insult! I've copyrighted that!" John spluttered teasingly. He was obviously enjoying the performance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nerys, I thought your comment awfully similar to something I myself would say. I've conducted this experiment upon meeting you to see if my intial impression was correct."

John and Nerys looked at him sharply and said in unison, "Was it?"

The detective grinned and placed his fingertips together. "Obviously."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review. Cumbercookies to those that do. (I didn't rhyme that on purpose, I swear.)**


	8. Chapter 8: Arguing

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! It really helps, and I'll try to update more often. Would you like a juicy argument as reward? Really? Well here - enjoy!**

Nerys blinked. "I'm insulted."

Sherlock looked up at her sharply. "What?"

"I'm insulted. I am personally offended. I might even go so far as to say that you have hurt my feelings, although I keep those well protected and they seem to be intact."

John snorted, his hands clamped tightly over his face. He didn't seem to trust himself to watch the events unfolding before him, for fear of melting down into puddles of laughter. Nerys didn't blame the poor doctor – this could get messy.

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes again. "And I take it you believe that I am the source of your insulted ego? May I ask why?"

"Can't you just _deduce_ it?" Nerys cried incredulously.

"Both you and John know that I have...much to learn when it comes to socially acceptable behavior. I'd like you to expound upon your previous statement. I cannot understand without data."

John was howling behind his fingers.

Nerys smiled. "You're admitting that you don't understand something. You're admitting that you are inept at best when it comes to polite conversation. Really?"

"Yes." He lowered his hands and glowered up at her. "I always admit when I am wrong. That is why it is so rare."

"Because you're never wrong, is that it?"

"Hardly ever, which is nearly the same thing."

"Pompous pig!"

"Insufferable skank!"

"Oh!" Nerys gasped, unconsciously drawing nearer to Sherlock's reclining form. "I'm deeply insulted! Horrifically insulted!"

Sherlock smirked. "At least now I know the cause."

"The first time was because you said I was like you."

"And that is insulting why?" He looked utterly bewildered.

Nerys flung her hands in the air. John's face came out of his hands to watch. He looked solemn, because apparently they'd exited 'funny' and run headlong into 'row.'

"Sherlock Bleeding Holmes," she said dangerously, "you are an insufferable git. You may be smart. You may be interesting. But to be compared to you is a massive hurt. You're unfeeling and unkind and say terrible things and I pray to the Lord that I don't treat people the same way you do."

"You do," John and Sherlock said in unison.

Nerys bit her lip. "Well then."

She looked at her feet. Sherlock looked at them as well. She'd left her wellies by the door, so she was standing there in her stockings. They were mismatched, and appeared to be handknit – one was cabled down the front and the other was black and red striped. Suddenly her head rose and she gestured at herself in a weakly flailing way.

"Read me, Sherlock," she said in a trembling voice.

He sat up in one swift motion. His back was ramrod straight as he looked her up and down. John was violently shaking his head _no_ behind Nerys, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Why?" he said simply.

She took a shuddering breath. "To find out what else is wrong with me."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Free hugs to each reviewer, I swear.**


	9. Chapter 9: Jared

**A/N: Whoa...this one got a lot deeper and darker than I meant it to...**

Sherlock's eyes slid over Nerys again and again, appraising her as he would a vase at an antique shop. She could almost see the cogs whirring in that massive head of his. Finally, he opened his mouth and took a quick preparatory breath.

"You're thirty years old, you knit – in fact, you've made those stockings and the jumper you're wearing, and no, John, don't get excited, she's not going to make you one, she hasn't knitted anything for years. Your initial dream was to work for some nonsense knitting magazine but you've since changed your focus. You weren't always careless and rude, you once cared for someone, someone who let you down. Not family, no, you haven't spoken to them in some time, not since you moved here from Wales five years ago. Yes, Wales, I can hear it in your voice even though you've tried to disguise it, perhaps for a radio job you had early on, and of course I can tell, particularly with a name like Nerys Llewellyn – how could you be anything but? But back to the letting down. Probably a close friend, a lover even, perhaps dead or estranged...oh." He lifted his chin slightly, his eyes glassily fixed on her lips.

John looked back and forth between the two of them. Nerys's chin shook, but she uttered not a sound as the tears fell unheeded down her cheeks.

"Erm, Sherlock?" John coughed.

Sherlock seemed to snap back to reality and glanced at the army doctor. "Hmm, what?"

"Bit not good."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Nerys snatched wearily at any semblance of composure. "His name was Jared."

"Ah," Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he burrowed his lips down on his steepled fingers. "He was why you left Wales. He was why you don't speak to your family anymore. Did they like him?"

"Yes."

"Why did he leave you?"

"Sherlock!"

The detective glared angrily at John. "What now?"

John just buried his face in his hands.

Nerys plucked at the fingers on her opposite hand. "No, it's alright. I should be able to talk about it. Even to a complete and utter _prat_ like you." She sniffed slightly in Sherlock's direction, but considering the circumstances her voice was quite steady. "He was my stepdad's nephew. Not related, of course, but sort of...attached. We grew up as best friends, bashing about the neighbourhood on our bicycles, getting each other in and out of scrapes and fights and tiffs with the street-corner bullies. And then, in highschool, during some stupid biology film or something, he leaned over and...kissed me. It was my first, and I was totally done for after that."

She took in a deep, steadying breath. John's face was still in his hands, but he was listening. Sherlock was leaning forward slightly, eyes locked on her mouth as she spoke.

"The parents were ecstatic. My brothers approved. You know how hard family is to please, right?" she laughed.

Sherlock's eye twitched. "Indeed."

"I loved him. I really did," she went on, as if she hadn't heard Sherlock at all. "I already loved him before, but this was different. It was as if our affection and friendship had...upgraded, as it were. To the next level. It sort of frightened me, in a thrilling way, but being a teenager I was reckless and I thought that we could be young like that, together, forever."

Sherlock's eyes were glazing over. "_Please_, come to the point. I understand the backstory. I've gotten it from the fray-mark midway up your pyjama leg."

John spluttered. "Wh-wha – "

"Not now, John, she's speaking."

John's face sank slowly back onto his palms.

"He got into drugs in our third year of school," Nerys continued, barreling along as if afraid to stop. Afraid that if she didn't hurry and get it out it would never come. "He experimented with different ones, but cocaine was his favourite. It frightened me. He tried to make me do them too, but I was scared. And when he was high he scared me. I promised him I would keep it a secret, keep it from our friends and family, and it started to eat me from the inside out. I don't know how he kept everyone in the dark as to what he was doing – the cocaine made it hard for him to sleep, and he was so thin, and his skin started to go funny, and he wore long sleeves all the time to hide the injection marks. Finally he made himself sick on it, almost OD'd, and I went berserk. I told him it was me or the drugs. I think you know what happened after that, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock had gone slightly grey. He was rubbing the crook of his elbow absentmindedly, where John knew he bore his own needle scars.

"I think I do, yes," the detective said tersely, trying to sound flippant. "He chose the drugs and you moved away. Went to uni here. He's still alive, otherwise your family would have notified you, so you're afraid to go home. Afraid you won't be able to keep his secret for him any longer. And really, Nerys, it's a surprise he's stuck around this long, to hell with staying under the radar – just _surviving_ must have taken a miracle. When are you going to tell them? You can't go home until you do. What has it been, two years since you've seen any of them? Since you've spoken to them? I take it you were very close, by the sound of your narrative."

"Yes." Nerys swallowed, resisting the urge to scrub at her eyes and let a sob rip from her throat. "But it's not my secret to tell. He hurt me. I tried to help him. But now he's made it his own problem and he can tell them himself."

John suddenly spoke up. "Nerys...it became your secret the minute you promised to keep it. You can't just let him do this to himself."

**A/N: Sorry about the long gap between updates! This chapter was especially hard to write. I hope you enjoy it anyway. And if any of you are struggling with this sort of thing – addiction, depression, the pressure of another person's weighty secret – then know that you're not alone. Know that you are loved. And if you can't talk to someone you know about what you're going through, then feel free to PM me. I'll listen, and I'll do my best to comfort. :) (((hugs all around)))**


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